


did you fall from the sky

by blackice



Category: Painted Skin (2008)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Demon Busting Not Explicit, F/M, Friends to Lovers to Spouses, Self-Indulgent, Sexuality crises in Ancient China??? nope, you'd think i'd learn by now how to deny myself the small fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-24 22:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10751034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackice/pseuds/blackice
Summary: Five times Xia Bing caught Pang Yong, and the one time Pang Yong dropped Xia Bing.





	did you fall from the sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vaenire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaenire/gifts).



> For vaenire, who agreed to restream Painted Skin (2008) for an incredibly tiny audience at a very late time. AND ALSO THANKS TO LIONMETTLED FOR BETA-ING THIS AT LITERALLY 1AM AT NIGHT WHEN WE REALLY SHOULD HAVE BEEN DOING SCHOOL THINGS.

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Asleep 

Exhaustion could not adequately describe Xia Bing’s current mood. Chasing a snake demon to the far reaches of the empire demanded energy and focus, and after they had dispatched of it at the outskirts of a village—it had been hiding as a medicine man, and perhaps Bing could have let that go had the prescriptions not been so perilously inaccurate—Yong had promptly steered them around to find the nearest inn.

He’d been running on dregs. The occurrence of this happened often enough that Bing knew her job by heart. _Get him to shelter. Ply him with food and drink. Drop-kick him into bed_ . _Don’t bother him for eight hours._ It was partially out of guilt that Bing had crafted this plan; weeks of training with Yong weren’t enough for Bing to solo a demon hunt yet, and so Yong played the role of sacrificial bone-headed idiot while Bing landed the killing blows.

If Yong was ever discomforted by being the one suffering the pawn’s sacrifice, he never complained nor asked Bing to start contributing more. If Yong was ever annoyed by Bing’s still developing biceps, however, he made his annoyance known to the whole world.

Like now.

Draped over her shoulder was Yong’s right arm, heavy muscle an anchor weighing down Bing’s neck. Bing was bodily dragging Yong up the stairs so she could dump him into their room (turns out, eating so much food eats their funds up fast, so farewell separate rooms) and find some peace in the burgeoning dice game below.

Yong was not helping. “So weak!” he said loudly, intentionally shifting his body weight to one foot. He leaned onto Bing’s side, grinning like a fool. “What would happen if I just—”

“Don’t,” said Bing. The urge to step on his foot was rising. “Don’t you dare.”

“You should start lifting the heavier swords in practice,” Yong suggested. He reoriented himself the best he could while under the influence of wine. “Every time I see you with your grandpa’s blade, Bing, I laugh.”

Bing weighed her chances of having a peaceful night and morning if she dropped him down the stairs. Unfortunately, Yong was too good at holding grudges. He could stretch the repercussions of one small insult into days of rebuttal. “Why?” she eventually returned, reaching the top and steering him down a narrow hallway to the third and final door.

It would be a small room. Bing could tell by the floor plan.

“Because you act like it’s so heavy! Like your arm will just—” For demonstration, Yong raised his left arm stiffly, and then furiously wiggled the limb until it was loose and trembling.

They reached their room. Bing shoved the door open with a well-placed foot, and together, the drunk and the remorseful stared at their purchase. As Bing had predicted, it was a small room. One bed was crammed against a wall, a large chest behaving as both storage and nightstand next to it. The window was a decent size if Bing ever needed a swift escape, but it was still small.

“It _is_ heavy,” Bing shot back, and she maneuvered them to the small space between the bed and the wall. Solemnly, she spoke while lifting her eyes to heaven, “It is heavy with the number of old demon souls it has feasted on.”

Yong did not move to flop onto the covers, but she felt him do a double-take. “Are you joking?”

Bing rolled her eyes. She extricated herself from his arms and gently pushed him to the bed. “Of course, fool. What sword eats souls?” Once Yong was situated, Bing dusted off her hands before his face. “Leave enough room for me on the bed,” she demanded. “I’m going back down, and I want to come back up to sleep on sheets instead of the floor.”

“Sure,” said Yong. “Get, then. Do whatever young people do.”

“Gambling,” said Bing baldly. “But I’m terrific at it, so you shouldn’t be worried.”

Two hours later, pockets weighed down by her winnings, Bing staggered back to their room with a generously donated lantern. It was only after she set it down on the chest that she realized Yong was fast asleep, belly flat on the bed with his head turned to the side.

He looked younger like this. Less stressed about trying to keep them alive and victorious in their long and endless quest to rid the land of parasitical demons.

Yong’s mouth was partially open. His lips looked like an invitation.

Bing frantically pushed the last thought from her head, even as she took off her heavy outer robe and belts. She debated undressing further (it was a humid night, made worse by the inn’s poor insulation), but decided to keep on her tunic and leggings. It looked as though Yong had done the same—taken off his more protective gear, but still fully clothed.

It did nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders or dip of his spine.

The most terrible thing was, the sight of Yong sleeping peacefully in bed reminded Bing that chastity had not (rather emphatically not) been a part of her demon hunter vows . Either way, Bing eyed the small space between Yong and the wall and decided to not risk crawling into it.

She slept on the floor.

(In the early hours of the morning, when the sun is barely visible but is already painting the sky pink and orange, Yong will wake up and see Bing slumped against the door and he will make a face of affectionate disapproval. He will sacrifice his blankets to her and sit on the bed and meditate for a few hours more, and when she begins to stir, Yong will purposely trip over her while heading outside.)

 

Drunk 

“Yong?” she hissed into the night. He was absent from his bedroll—granted, not too unusual if he was going for a midnight leak, but he’d been gone for more than their customary agreement of fifteen minutes. The thought crossed her mind that Yong had fallen into the river.

 _‘Yong knows how to swim_ ,’ Bing argued in her head. Then she blanched. ‘ _Yong_ does _know how to swim, right?_ ’ Bing sat up in her bedroll and flung herself out of it, tugging on her boots.

“Yong!” Bing repeated, grabbing her grandfather’s sword and the fox essence.

She didn’t have to wander far. Yong was sitting against a tree, or more like pressed up against it while holding his knees to his chest. He was rocking back and forth, and he was not saying anything. His lips moved to an unspoken chant. Some bottles rested by his feet, tipped over on their sides with no liquor pouring out.

Unsure if touch would startle him into violence, or if even her voice would do the same, Bing sat cross-legged across from him. ‘ _Wild man_ ,’ she thought. His unbound hair was in disarray, and also flecked with leaves. When she studied him further, Bing realized his knees and boots were marked with wet dirt, like—like he’d been running.

She wondered how long he had ran, and also how the hells he had found bottles of alcohol in the middle of nowhere. A still? Were the closest townsfolk bootlegging? Perhaps they should make plans to head back into the desert.

The first slurring words to come scraping out of his throat startled her. “You don’t need to keep a look out. I’ve got it.”

“It’s not about whether you’ve got it,” said Bing. “It’s about whether you should bear it.” She jerked her chin at him. “I’m moving spots,” she declared abruptly, when his lips had thinned and his eyes narrowed into angry, frustrated slits. Unhurried, Bing changed positions to sit next to him. “Can’t leave you alone for an hour, can I.” she complained.

It was not snuggling, nor cuddling. If anything, it was Bing (for once) pressing all her weight into Yong’s side and hoping her warmth was enough for them both. At least he wasn’t moving away.

Yong’s face creased. “I didn’t leave her. She left me.” He started to dig his knuckles into his temples, elbows clutching his knees tighter against his chest. “Of course she’d leave.”

She didn’t want to promise the opposite. They led interesting lives, and sometimes the interesting branched into deadly. _And yet,_ Bing could tell Yong was not really here. He might be talking to an old army friend about his woes with Peirong and Sheng, or some stranger on a road to nowhere.

Tentatively, she slung an arm across his broad shoulders. “Are you… thinking about quitting?”

His breathing turned heavy. Harsh. A little wet. “Quitting?” he echoed. “To spare myself from going home to my love and seeing her moon over another man? Oh, I’ve thought about it.”

This was a history Bing had no concept of, and for a very long time, had no intention of learning about. They were private people, intensely private people when it came down to things that mattered. About life and other things, they were almost embarrassingly open.

But their histories they kept jealously close.

But how to respond? As a fellow soldier? A bartender? Herself?

“Pang Yong,” she said quietly. She smelled the earth on him, the wet leaves and dried sweat. In her head, Bing asked, ‘ _Did you run from a nightmare? Are you running from it now?_ ’ Aloud, she said more insistently, “Yong.”

“One more battle. I’ll fight one more battle with Sheng by my side. He’s a good kid, he’s kind, he’ll be good to her,” responded the man, his voice growing weaker. “He’s always liked her. The moment I introduced him to her.”

Bing shut her eyes and hugged him close. Yong had his issues, and Bing understood—somewhat—why Peirong had found Sheng the more attractive option. Sheng accommodated people; he was built for it, for caring and loving with his puppy-eyes and open arms.

Yong was… prickly. And self-absorbed. Bing had heard no end to the stories of his ‘wild youth,’ which always wrapped up with some high-handed lesson Bing rolled her eyes at, because Yong was not selfless. He always demanded a trade in service, believing charity deserved to be repaid in gold or food or bedding, depending on the client.

But he was kind, and when he loved, Yong loved with his entire heart. It was all-or-nothing with him, so Bing was coming to understand.

“What’s done is done,” Bing told him uselessly. “You’re still breathing, aren’t you? Still living, drinking, having a laugh every now and then?”

“I loved her,” confessed Yong, and now Bing suspected he was superbly drunk. Yong was not so simple to admit this to Bing, of all people. He was not a man to admit to grief until he was drowned half-way in it, confronted with overwhelming evidence.

She patted his shoulder, a little awkward. “She, um. Loved you too.”

Yong snorted. And then he shook himself a little, like waking from a trance. Bing rather hurriedly tucked her arm around her own waist instead of his shoulder, and she shut her eyes and steadied her breathing. Faking sleep wasn’t easy around a martial artist, but Bing was also tired from waking up and chasing after Yong, so he would have to deal.

And in any case, if he was so in-control of his body to purge his mind of the drink’s haze, Yong could also definitely deal with the watch.

(He will claw himself out of this alcohol-induced melancholic fog and see Bing against his shoulder. She is armed with her sword and her bottle of fox essence, and she is faking sleep. Yong will see it in her controlled breathing and closed mouth and anxiously twitching eyes underneath the scrunched eyelids. She’s terrible at falsehood. For the rest of tonight, he will lie awake and stay and keep watch, a warm weight pressing into his side.)

 

Nearly Naked 

“No!” said Bing loudly, casting her eyes at the wide sky. “This is not happening!” Beneath her layers of protective leathers, she could feel her skin prickling with awareness. She turned about on her heel and started stalking back to their camp. Damn washing, damn the oasis. She could live.

From behind her, Yong was screeching too, like he wasn’t sunning himself on an upturned boulder, completely nude save for the wrap that protected his modesty. “I told you I was going to wash off the poison!”

The scorpion demon’s tail had pinned Yong to the ground, but it hadn’t pierced his skin. It’d only burnt a large hole through his cloak. When Bing beheaded the scorpion and pushed its corpse off of Yong, the tail had also been removed.

The problem had been that the poison secreted was acidic, and had still been eating away at the threads of his clothes.

“All you had to do was throw your clothes in the water,” Bing shot over her shoulder. Were her cheeks burning? Must be rage. It couldn’t be a blush; she hadn’t seen enough of Yong to warrant it. Or—she saw his tanned skin stretch from his long legs to his taut, muscled abdomen all the way up to Yong’s bared neck—

So maybe she’d seen enough.

Splashing.  Low cursing. Clumsy, clumsy footsteps. “I did,” he protested, sounding alarmingly close.

Bing held up a fist, a signal taught to her by Yong that meant ‘halt.’ When she spoke, her voice was pitched higher than she would have preferred. “If you’re not wearing clothes, I’m going to hit you.”

Yong stopped short some meters away. “… So, about that.” A note of guilt entered his tone.

Without thinking about it, Bing spun around. “Did you actually lose your clothes?”

(Things will devolve into an argument, and Yong will forget to feel embarrassed about being almost completely naked. Yong’s clothes will not be found until they are done bickering about responsibility, and even then it will take an hour because Yong’s clothes have been taken by an appreciative water demon.)

 

From falling on his ass 

The thing was Bing knew Yong was heavy. She knew because he always leaned on her when he was tired after a demon hunt, and when he was injured, Bing was usually not. However, she never expected to catch him (or try to, anyway) in her arms.

He was shoved by a man bigger than him—not a demon this time, though Bing could easily believe the man was a monster. Caught off-guard by the impulsive movement, Yong had stumbled back. He might have regained his equilibrium, if not for the convenient divot in the ground.

She managed to hook her arms under his, but the angle at which he’d fallen caused her face to press against the back of his neck.

“You good?” asked Bing, gritting the words through her teeth. She could smell sweat, and she swore she could taste its salt. Curiously, Yong shivered. It lasted only for a moment, but she heard his breath hitch and felt his body tremble. On instinct she dug her fingers into his arms. “Yong.”

Yong rebounded hard, stamping on the ground with one foot to provide him the momentum to fly a barrage of kicks and punches at his offender’s face. Bing discarded the opportunity to gawk, and she put her time to good use ushering pedestrians away.

After Yong kicked the man’s ass and his teeth in, they were invited to a teahouse. Bing didn’t fail to notice Yong’s deliberately-engineered bubble of space.

Skittish. That was the word. His knees were drawn-up to be cross-legged, and he was rocking back and forth. Bing studied Yong’s face, how free it was from the drink’s influence.

She thought they’d gotten past shyly touching each other after the fight with the toad demon. A lot of ground got covered when a man spat alcohol into your wounds and bound them without the intention of perversion.

On instinct, Bing reached out to grab Yong’s knee. She dug her fingers into it; he wasn’t ticklish, and there were multiple layers preventing her nails from biting into the skin, but he stilled at the touch.

“What?” he demanded, staring at the clay teapot.

“You’re being odd.”

Yong turned to squint at her, like she was being particularly bothersome. He hadn’t removed her hand from his knee though, so Bing judged herself to be safe. “Odd?” her partner repeated, sounding insulted. “This coming from the demon buster?”

Releasing her grip on his knee, Bing leaned away. “I haven’t even gotten a thanks yet,” Bing sniffed, pouring herself a generous cup of the common tea blend. “Most people say that when they’re saved from sitting on dirt, you know.”

He made a ‘tch’ noise.

“And you’re heavy,” she added.

Yong made a strangled noise, and quickly poured himself a cup as well. “Let’s just—agree to never talk about how I was tripped.”

“You tripped yourself!”

“He pushed me first, and you saw it,” Yong said firmly. “And thanks.” When Bing beamed at his show of gratitude, Yong scowled and amended his statement. “Thanks for nothing! You couldn’t have pushed me back to my feet? You’re lucky he was distracted that your stick arms could even lift me.”

(Bing will loudly call him fat. They will both forget the teahouse is a place for rest and rejuvenation. Yong will bluster about Bing’s passivity in the time of Yong’s need, and he will endeavor to forget what it was like to be held up for once, what it was like to feel Bing’s lips against his neck, her teeth close enough to bite. He will try, but dreams are insidious like that.)

 

From trying to get away from a bodacious demon who’d change for Yong, no, really. 

Two hours ago, Bing and Yong had tracked a hen demon to a brothel. The demon hadn’t gone on any killing sprees yet, but they’d broken at least a dozen hearts—both husbands and wives were being cuckolded, curiously—and stolen half of those unfortunates’ fortunes in the process. In any case, Bing and Yong had arrived at the brothel’s rather stately doors and stalled.

Yong made the argument that Bing could use her feminine wiles and taunt the demon to come outside. He looked uneasy about stepping into the brothel, like he expected to be eaten alive by not just a hen.

So Bing had made the appropriate counter-argument in calling him a coward, and stalked inside the brothel to go find the mistress.

She had not expected to be plied with so much liquor and soft skin. “I really don’t have the money,” said Bing, blinking at the pale hand tracing the veins and scars of her own calloused ones. The girl smiled, an invitation.

“What do you work as?” She was edging forward, and the scent of her perfumed hair made Bing’s nose wrinkle. It was alluring, but it wasn’t familiar or comforting, not like—

“Bing!” yelped a very, very familiar voice. “Bing, help!”

Bing closed her eyes and breathed in another lungful of the girl’s perfume, then opened her eyes. “Sorry,” she said, climbing to her feet and fumbling for one of her grandfather’s concoctions. The regret was real. Sparing a moment to curse Yong out in her head, Bing then sighed and tipped the flask’s vile contents into her mouth.

Her grandfather, she thought blackly, must have had a real stick up his end to create the Anti-Drunk Cure.

But at least she was lucid. The girl gaped up at her, surprised at the turn in attitude, but she hastened to regain her customer’s goodwill. “He does not sound in distress,” she tried.

“He’s always in distress,” said Bing, and she took her leave and followed the ruckus all the way to a private bedroom in the back of the brothel. She kicked the door down.

Even if she was a jealous woman who jumped to conclusions, Bing would not have been able to stop from cracking up at the sight. Yong was crouched defensively in a corner, his pole arm extended outwards, and his face was blanched. Atop the bed, a very naked woman was beseeching Yong’s love and being all… heaving breasts and wiggly hips.

Bing saw the appeal, and a part of her longed to just admire the sight. The majority of her realized that Yong was probably being traumatized, and so Bing stepped inside the room and shut the door with an audible thunk.

“Good catch,” she congratulated Yong, her voice full of mirth.

Yong gestured at the demon with his pole arm’s blade. “Do something!” he demanded, eyes cast to the ceiling. “And where have you been?”

“Mingling,” said Bing bluntly, and she turned to study the other woman. “Are you the hen demon that’s stolen the fortunes of half a dozen lords and ladies this side of the desert?”

The grin was flirtatious. Yes, Bing could very well see how the demon had captivated so many hearts. “Are you his wife? Lover? Friend on the side?”

“We’re demon busters.”

This did not in any fashion dampen the enthusiasm on the demon’s face. “Well, are you willing to share at least? If only for a night? I don’t kill people, you should know that.” She drew the blankets over her lap and pulled them to barely cover her chest. Her doe-eyes belied a sharp calculating glint.

Bing crossed her arms. “You almost gave Yong a heart attack.”

“It’s not my fault he’s a precious innocent,” cooed the demon. “All righteousness and demon-slaying coming to a halt because he’s caught me without my clothes on.”

“Bing,” whined Yong from his corner.

“Well, she hasn’t committed any murders yet,” Bing mused. If it wasn’t for the serial thieving, Bing could have excused the whole string of broken hearts. It was preferable to corpses, at least, and… Bing stared baldly at the hen demon. “What do you do with the money?”

The hen demon’s smile dropped a little. She seemed taken aback by the change in questioning. “The money?” she parroted.

“You’re not killing anyone,” said Bing, “but you _are_ stealing from your lovers. So where’s the money going?” She stalked up to the bed and placed a hand at the hilt of her sword. The hen didn’t look as powerful as the fox demon from months back, but Bing had the demon rod tucked in her belt anyway.

The hen let the blanket drop. She glared defiantly up at Bing. “I have my hobbies.”

“Gambling?”

“Investing.”

With that, Bing nodded and snagged a shapely foot. With her unoccupied hand, she dug out a bracelet strung with red wooden beads. “Just in case,” she warned the demon. “This will help us track you down if word about a murderous hen demon starts popping up.” Bing slipped it onto the ankle, and it briefly glowed white and gold.

The hen stared at it, dumbfounded. “Can it kill me?” she asked. She was fairly calm about the whole ordeal, more than Yong, at least.

Speaking of. Bing glanced behind her and saw Yong slouched against the wall, a forearm over his eyes and some silent mantra coming from his mouth. She looked back. “No. But you won’t be able to take it off, and it doesn’t chafe the skin.”

“Oh, you’ve had problems with that?”

“Demons trying to take it off, or bracelets chafing my skin?” inquired Bing, and the demon leered.

“Are you absolutely sure you don’t want a night with me, dear?” At Bing’s amused smirk, the demon sighed. She shifted a bit to see Yong and called plaintively, “I’d do anything for you, you know. Give up my dresses, my jewels and gold accessories…” In the face of his mute stoicism, the demon sent a commiserating stare to Bing, who only shrugged. “We could’ve spent a good night together,” the demon sighed again.

“I’m not sure he’d survive,” Bing said, and she went over to her fellow demon buster and helped him find a steady footing. “Miss, could you cover up?”

The hen demon exaggerated her clutching of the blanket to her chest. Yong hurried out the room first, and Bing lingered a bit behind. “Check in on me soon, _Bing_. Maybe next time we’ll meet in better circumstances.” A parting wave, and Bing let the door fall shut.

It took until outside the brothel for Yong to sulkily say, “A little earlier, next time, please.”

Bing raised her hands. “She seemed pretty reasonable for a hen demon.”

“That’s not—well, yes. But only after you talked to her.” Yong stewed on this for the duration of the walk back to their inn, and Bing was content to spin daydreams in the quiet night. “Were you—thinking of taking up her offer?”

A crossroads. Or maybe an opportunity. Bing linked her fingers behind her neck and grinned at nothing in particular. “I wouldn’t have.” Yong was about to respond, probably in kind, but then Bing added, “Not without you.”

Yong stumbled; Bing strode on.

(Yong will catch up to Bing. He will give her approximately five reasons as to why she shouldn’t get attached to him, and she will toss a lighthearted quip about demon busting and their compatibility and a fact about how she’d skipped the chastity section in her demon busting vows. They will reach the inn and their rented room, and once Bing drags Yong in, she will push him against the shut door and kiss him, hands framing his jaw and eyes wide-open. Yong will forget to say ‘I think I love you,’ but figures he has plenty of opportunities later as long as they keep each other alive.)

+1 Onto bed 

Weddings were not for people like them. Well, maybe for Yong, but that was years ago, when he was still in the midst of courting Peirong. Xia Bing was an entirely different personality, all wild and brash and not at all ladylike, so Yong had tossed marriage from his mind the moment it’d entered.

“This is new,” said Bing, delighted and flushed. Not from the ceremonial wine, surely. Yong had seen Bing out-drink men twice her size, with alcohol that should have burned through her throat. She skated her hands down his biceps; he was holding her up against a wall, face buried in the crook of her neck. “You never show off your arms.”

“I’ve been shirtless around you before,” Yong protested. She tightened her legs around his waist.

“Right, right,” she agreed. “But as my _husband_?” Bing wiggled her eyebrows, then yelped when Yong took a step away from the wall. Miscalculating where he’d thrown his tunic and Bing’s outer layers, he stumbled for stable footing again. “Watch it!”

His knees bumped against the wooden frame, and reflexively, Yong dropped his newly-wedded wife onto the bed. He counted himself lucky that the bedding wasn’t too thin, or else he would have received a kick to the ribs. “Watch it, watch it,” he echoed, and he stretched his arms and spine. “Trust goes both ways, remember?”

Seconds into watching this display, Bing scoffed and lunged to drag him down.

He managed to catch himself from squashing her, but it was close. Their noses brushed, and Yong summoned a witty quip about eagerness and wedding nights, and then he met her eyes. His throat seized.

“Husband,” Bing teased, and Yong felt the flirtatious touch of a leg brush his side.

Very seriously, Yong slipped his fingers into the hem of her pants and returned, “Wife.”

(The ending: Pang Yong and Xia Bing live and restart work as demon counselors. They kill killers and guilt-trip the remorseful, and eventually they settle down in a town famous for its food and drink. Some demons come back wanting a fight, and more come back seeking a place of respite. The Demon Busters line ends with them.)

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End file.
